I didn't know how this would end when I began writing. I just knew I needed to pen my anger.
I had a lot of things I needed to get through: thoughts that take over my brain and I think about over and over. Knowing what I know about myself, I'm stuck here until I take the time to write it down. It's gonna be a lot. I need to write about what happened in the hours after his death, how I remember the last time I saw his face, what exactly I saw & how that April is sooooo separate from the April I am now. I've learned what that is: dissociation.
I've also realized I've used dissociation my entire life. I'm not ready to write about that yet.
I need to write these facts down. Facts that sound a little too weird if you've never suffered the loss of a child. I have. So whatever I need is ok as long as it isn't harmful to me or anyone else.
In the middle of writing how angry I am about not having signs from my son, about this deep turmoil I'm addressing, I get a letter. Not just any letter. A letter from the organ donation organization that took care of Enzo.
A recipient of Enzo's donation has reached out.
I wait two days for this letter.
The same April that dealt with Enzo's death, opened that letter. Everything about Enzo's death has been addressed by that other me.
The letter is brief, kind, and to the point. I can't even tell what gender is writing. It's the most simplistic form of beauty I've ever seen. It's the very same beauty I see I sunsets now. Those sunsets.
I now recall so well when he blatantly told me less than two weeks before his death "Mom, you know if anything ever happens to me, I'll be in every sunset you see."
I believe to my core that I would not allow myself to remember that until I knew for certain that did not make it make it my fault. Because, right? That's a pretty big, fucking red flag. And I did not respond accordingly. I didn't.
But I also do not hold that against me. And that's why I love this other side that protects me. I'm grateful.
The letter makes it clear - your son gave me the use of my leg again.
How? I don't know.
It doesn't matter. I finally have it. The one sign that's so precise no one can take it away.
The one thing that changed him to the core: losing the ability to use his leg for years & working to regain full function - is also the precise thing he gave to someone else.
That's Serendipity.
That's Enzo.
I see you, Kiddo. I love you.
Comments
Post a Comment